speed

I haven’t been writing lately. Instead, I’ve been whisked along through my days as if I were in some wacky tornado, galloping here and there, my head filled with Things To Do, my inner life ignored while I flit from one task to the next.

But when I look at what there is in front of me, what I’ve actually accomplished, it’s not altogether clear. Have I anything to show for it?

These days, I seem to forge ahead with a kind of unseeing tunnel vision, focused on the one goal – and once this is completed, it’s on to the next mission, which must be attended to immediately. No time to stop, or look, or observe, or reflect, or smell the daisies, or smell whatever else happens to be nearby. (An apple pie? A field of grass? The garbage?)

Generally speaking, I’m subjected to a culture focused on product, not process. It’s too easy to pay no attention to the journey, and simply work toward, and pine away for, the journey’s end.

And when I reach that all-important place, I sort of stand there and think, “Well. How is it that I’m suddenly here? And, where is here, anyway? And, what happened to me in the midst of all that?”

Time goes quickly when one is scurrying through. Living this way, one loses perspective and a sense of wisdom. Whatever happened to reflection, to thinking things through before rushing off and bopping everything on the head, with little to no grace or nuance? Whatever happened to sitting and thinking?

When submerged in a life of activity and accomplishments, there’s no other contextual reference point, and it becomes meaningless. There should be time for doing nothing. Nothing.

I believe the reason I haven’t been writing lately is because I’ve been caught up in this way of life, which threatens the philosopher and kills the dreamer. I’ve been conjuring up all kinds of plots and plans, making good on goals and promises to myself.

But when I do this, a part of me slips away – the creation that comes from stillness, the light that comes from contemplation. And when I finally give myself the moment to breathe, and to rest, all sorts of inspiration emerges and I actually accomplish what I meant to do in the first place.

Which is, to imagine and create from the place that only shows itself within the deeply silent moments. The moments without motion; the reflective ones.

Here, there is no product, no tangible evidence of accomplishment. There is only the sweet moment, like a sumptuous sip of warm tea that nourishes and replenishes body and soul for another exquisite day in this gorgeous life.

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avocados

Why do you buy avocados, when
all they do is just sit there in the
bowl
getting soft?
Do you think you’ll make
something from them?
An inevitable dip with
the usual suspects –
peppers, tomatoes,
fiesta, feast, a tangled equation?
Do you think you’ll slice them
and place them between
two pieces of brown bread
with mayo, maybe – or a good
stinky cheese?
Will you mash them up
and smear them on your face?
Will they beautify you?
Make you stronger?
Fill your veins with the fat
from their shrunken, aged-looking bodies
that you’ll cut open to reveal
frolicking green-spring,
youth, optimism in succulence,
a pliant meat
you bite into like butter and
chew in sunken distraction
as you read a magazine, look at your phone, get on
Facebook?
Will you dissect their sensuous shape?
Pop out the pit?
Peel off the
rough skin
with your finger,
sliding it around the perimeter
until the satin and dulcet flesh
is free?
Until you’ve had your way with them,
plucked them
from their sanctuary like tiny virgins,
closed your lips around them
in reckless, primordial pleasure?
Or will they sit in the bowl?
Why do you buy them
when they sit in the bowl?
Old and wrinkled
and squishy,
waiting for a supreme moment
that will never come.
The one where they ooze magnificence –
fledglings
bursting from unremarkable shells;
New, enthusiastic, eternal.
No.
Rather, they sit in the bowl,
waiting for you.
For your best and latest ideas,
your most earnest
intentions.